The Prodigal Son
by BioD42
Summary: All Mordred ever wanted was the love of a father.
1. The Fires of Rebellion

The knights stood assembled in the castle courtyard. Before them stood their steward, the masked knight Mordred, armored in moonlight and clothed with the red of blood yet to be shed (blood _must_ be shed).

Those assembled had been left behind while the great and noble Arthur warred against his traitorous vassal in Gaul. They were torn between relief at not having to fight for far off causes and dismay at not partaking in the glory of a war well waged.

Either way, their king had left them in the capable hands of his most promising knight.

"_They say he is horribly disfigured and that that is why he wears the mask all the time" _said one knight.

"_Silence yourself before the steward has to do it for you"_ said his more levelheaded compatriot.

"_It doesn't matter as long as he keeps being better than the rest of us"_ another chimed in

Up on high, Mordred raised his hand to silence those that would soon be his fellow conspirators and began to speak.

"Knights, gentlemen, times have been hard on this magnificent kingdom of ours. Enemies remain at our doors and our king has left us (left _me_) to fight Lancelot (that bastard) in foreign lands. Many of you must be wondering if it will be worth it, and to be honest, so do I"

There was some discontent in the ranks. Mordred allowed it to fester before continuing.

"I wonder if our king's personal vendetta against a knight who has made him a fool does not heap further troubles on a long suffering people. I wonder why he did not trust you fine men enough to ride with him in this quest-" -was that why their king had left them here!- "I wonder if our king still has our best interests in heart!"

None could fathom what they were hearing. This was blasphemy! This was _treason! _How could such venom flow from such a paragon of valor and chivalry? The speaker gave them no time to object. His voice was like water; seeping silently into cracks of their hearts, then sweeping them away in the powerful current (if he could only see me now).

"I wonder if this king of ours has ever cared for us at all (I'll _make_ him care)!

How many villages have burned for "the greater good"? How many treasures pillaged from _us_? How many of _our_ children sold into slavery? How many of _our_ wives ravaged by barbarians!"

Behind the shelter of his mask, Mordred smiled. He knew many of these men to be from those villages. The embers of rebellion began to grow hot.

"_Well!_ Let me tell you something about this king for whom so many have suffered needlessly! He is no man! He does not care for the problems of men! He does not age or bleed like men do! He could not even satisfy his wife (that harlot)!

How can a ruler like that govern a nation of men! A nation that has fought and bled and died while he remains impassive (he has to)! With a honeyed tongue and a mailed fist! With a sorcerer at his beck and call (how I hate him)! What _noble_ king would have need of such dishonorable trickery?"

The embers became flames. Flames of passion. Fires of _hatred_.

"_Now,_ you may be wondering: 'why do we follow this automaton, if he brings us so much pain?' I shall tell you why: _you believed in him_ (I still do). You believed in the lies and false promises of power. He told you you were equals and he made you thralls! He told you you were mighty and he made you weak! He sees you as he sees all his subjects (as he sees me?): mere tools for his own use."

A pause. A sigh, the weariness genuine.

"Do not be ashamed. I believed in his promises too. I was fed those lies with the same ease you were, though it sickens me to think so".

He allows himself to look vulnerable. The knights sympathize. The knights _trust_.

"Now though, my mind is clear. I see that we have need of a new king! A king that will not betray you, as loathsome Arthur has! I ask of you, my friends free of bondage: who will be this new king?"

Fires of devotion.

"_SIR MORDRED WILL BE KING!" _is the unanimous reply.

Awe swept over him. The ploy had actually worked! Still, he would not go power-mad like his bitch of a mother had, oh no. He would _earn_ their devotion as their new king.

"My friends. . . I am humbled. You do me too much credit...

Nevertheless, I shall not let your faith in me go misplaced. Together, we will usher in a new age for Camelot and for Britain! An age free from that tyrant's grasp!"

Wild applause and cheering followed swiftly.

"My brothers, do not imagine our task an easy one. Arthur will not let his ill-gotten prize go without a struggle. He shall fight even those who were once his knights to enforce his claim on our lands. Do not expect mercy from his cold heart (do not expect love).

Knowing this, knowing that your blood may be spent in battle, knowing that you may never see the world you will claim for your children, do you still stand with me?"

A towering inferno.

"_AYE!"_

Mordred laughed the hearty laugh of a child who has won a difficult game.

"Then let us make haste, brothers! The shackles of servitude are not easily broken, and" he added with an irony allowed by arrogance "our king must not find us wanting".

So, doom came to Camelot.

* * *

Author's Notes:

Wow, it's been quite a while since I published anything here. I actually wrote this two months ago, but I was unsure in what order this story was going to be told. Consider this your introduction In Medias Res.

The fic was inspired by Heather Dale's song "Crashing Down" (Which was put on repeat while writing this) and a love of Arthurian lore. I've always thought villains were usually more interesting than heroes and when I listened to that song I started writing a speech of my own. The speech turned into one fit for FSN's Mordred, which turned into this story.

There's still much to be told, intrepid reader! Be prepared!


	2. Introductions

But before that there was a scene that has been set many times before: four men filled with more ale than sense were accosting a young barmaid. Once their bumbling attempts at flattery were soundly rebuffed by a slap or two, the men remembered that the four of them were stronger than one girl. Off to a place unseen they went, to do their dark deeds.

In the dirt of a a ditch lit by the bruised sky they whispered misplaced compliments and vulgar promises as they violently attempted to remove her meddling attire.

Cloth was torn, screams were heard, apathy prevailed. "Knights are supposed to stop this sort of thing", that idea remained even when faith in their lords began to wither. However, the knights were some ways away; more than enough time to begin their ugly business and end it too.

Whom those four did not see in their fervor was a figure clad in bright silver and red. While impressive in stature, it is of slight build and average height for one armored in such a fashion. The detail on the metalwork gives away the work of a craftsman and the fabric betrays the skill of a true tailor. More impressive still is his helmet, which is horned like a mighty ram, for its faceplate seems to gaze into the very souls of these scoundrels.

From the setting sun it steps, a moon come early to save those who need salvation, a sheathed sword its only companion.

"Milady" said the unnaturally deep voice without regard to her oppressors, "I assume this... affection is unwanted?"

The girl attempted to nod tearfully, but failed in this endeavor and surrendered herself fully to sobs of relief. What other purpose could this dashing figure have, if not her rescue?

The new arrival was silent a few moments while ruffians give him wary looks, contemplating the events in which he found himself. Then, he spoke anew:

"You four, regardless of your intent, have reduced this fair maiden to the point of tears. This alone is a crime which cannot go unpunished. You shall leave this place and never return, or you shall taste the bite of my blade".

The seriousness was lost on the four. The impeccable math of drunkards remains resolute even in the face of superior foes, and that math told them that they were still four and the one so rudely interrupting their well deserved distraction was just that: one. They also couldn't help but notice that the red cloth would fetch a mighty price at the right market, with its golden embroidery and such.

Let it be said that greed, lust, and ale together form a force which can override even the staunchest of sanity.

"And 'o a' 'u ta say that?" said one eloquent chap.

"A knight". The word had been heard by the lady before (who would distance herself from the rapscallions if not for a firm grip on her wrist), but never with such _conviction_.

"This is your final warning. Leave or die". The wind, as if sensing the need for its immediate presence, blew with a flair for the dramatic known only to the songs of bards to punctuate the finality of that statement.

Alas, such a thing remained uncared for by the ones who most needed to see it. All that was noticed was that their honor as drunken rapists was being slighted.

"I think it's you who'll be doin' tha dyin'!"

"Very well, you were warned". A girl could fall in love with that sorrow; she would be swept away in its depth, its necessity. As it stood, all of the fear she felt moments ago was swept away by awe for her savior. What happened next made that admiration become such a powerful and mighty thing that only those who have looked upon the faces of gods have the words to describe it to you fully.

The knight unsheathed his sword at last. If he was the moon, then this sword was moonlight, cutting away the darkest shadows in even the darkest nights. The dying light of its sister in the sky seemed to make it all the brighter, transcending the iron that had been used to forge it.

It did not matter though; that day, four drunkards ignored the signs of an ignoble end and charged.

* * *

Elsewhere and elsewhen, there was a trio riding through the land. It was customary in the land of Arthur for knights to patrol the kingdom in threes when not on quests for personal or greater glory. These evening rides not only had the assuaging of fears of peasants as their motivation, a reminder that they were protected by men of excellent nobility, and a display of influence on King Arthur's part, but also served the purpose of the strengthening of the bond between knights. It was a time for a more quiet camaraderie than suppertime and the sharing of stories, even doubts, deemed too private for the ears of all.

One of the three riding through the countryside this evening was jovially teasing their youngest member.

"A cheer for our newest compatriot, Sir Bedivere! May the damsels give him all the charity they've given me! Hurrah!"

To his right, Bedivere blushed while the one to his left remained impassive

"For someone so devout, you make light so easily, Gawain".

"Of course! Piety to our King is tantamount, but it is nothing without courtesy! Ask any who have wisdom of such things!"

"Y-you really think I shall be a great knight?" said Bedivere.

"Of course! I convinced Lancelot to become one, did I not?"

"And never have I heard the end of it" said he.

Bedivere laughed. "Truly there are no friends greater than you," -and before the most stoic of the three could let himself be heard- "though Sir Lancelot doth protest much. I imagine you shall stand together till the end".

"None better to stand with!" said Gawain mirthfully "Other than our King!"

"Aye" agreed Lancelot and he sighed.

"And you," said Gawain "your family has stood with our King since the beginning!"

"And nothing could convince us to leave" Bedivere said with pride.

"Ha_ha_! Then you are my brother as assuredly as Lancelot is! May we see our King's dream through together!"

"Aye!" said Bedivere

"Aye" said Lancelot with additional sadness.

After a few moments Bedivere spoke again: "Sirs, you are closer to the King than any but his Queen," -Lancelot flinched, but it remained unnoticed by the other two- "have you ever seen him smile in gladness?"

Lancelot's eyes became lit like a hawk's but it was silent for some time.

"I have not" said he "Though I dearly wish it. Why do you ask?"

"Because I wish it also. King Arthur has done more for this land than any, so does he not feel pride or happiness at his accomplishments?"

"What pride is there in a work unfinished?" replied Gawain "What happiness is to come from a deed left undone? What need has a King for flippant pleasantries? Only when Camelot is at its peak and He is laid to His rest will King Arthur be at peace and it is our duty and privilege to see that dream through with our bodies and our blood!"

"But-" began Bedivere, but he was interrupted by a loud screech some distance away.

"A lady in peril!" exclaimed Gawain, the conversation forgotten, and the great knight was off.

The other two pursued the Maidens' Knight, and even Sir Lancelot could not help but laugh at his friend.

All the while though, his eyes remained fixed on Bedivere.

* * *

What used to be four men lay scattered around the knight.

"Why would they forsake their lives like this!" he asked no one in particular. He let out a growl of frustration and braced for a kick to a corpse, but quickly thought better of it.

It was then that the maiden lunged at his knees, almost toppling him when four burly opponents had failed.

"Thank you, my lord!" she cried through her tears, "I do not- They would have- Thank you!"

"It is quite all right, milady. Now, could you please-"

He was interrupted by the arrival of three horsemen. Far to the front he saw the rising sun where surely it had been setting a moment ago, a man in silver armor, but of a warmth not known to the knight on the ground; to his right the night came impossibly early, a figure clad entirely in black; and to his left, almost obscured by the presence of the other two, though no more wanting in nobility, was a third.

When the foremost figure drew closer and the glare was no longer of such magnitude could the green band around his arm be seen. There was a gasp of recognition, of reverence, and Sir Gawain was upon him, his companions close behind.

"My lady!" Gawain shouted, "Fear no- Ah". It took him but a moment to realize the situation; the look on the maiden's face was one that was all too familiar to him.

"I see you are in no further need of rescuing".

Still embracing her knight's legs, she nodded most vigorously. "He was _wonderful, _my lord! He fought those monsters like they were but flees!". Then, turning back to her savior, deceptively still inside his armor: "Sir knight, please tell me the name of my hero".

"I too would like to know" said Sir Lancelot, who had caught up to Gawain alongside Sir Bedivere.

Regaining some of the composure he had lost without any noticing, he spoke:

"I am Mordred, a knight".

"Oh Sir Mordred!" cried the girl, and Mordred may have wondered how many tears a woman can shed before the setting of the sun, "I cannot thank you enough, but... if you remove your helmet, I shall try my hardest..."

Gawain raised his brow and the corners of his mouth at _that_, but it seemed seduction was an art lost on Mordred.

"I cannot reveal my self in the face of others until my destiny is done with me, it is the doing of a witch," -a knight never lies- "nor can I speak with my true voice. I may be younger than you assume".

Though disappointed that she could not properly thank her champion, the revelation aroused the love of the dramatic all maidens share, so her passions abated but little.

Still amused by this enduring affection, Gawain asked:

"Then where are you from, enchanted fellow? Who is your lord?"

"I am from the North, more I cannot say of my home" -a small sigh from, what by all appearances had become a permanent fixture to Mordred, now clearly to his discomfort and the amusement of the other three- "As for my lord, I have none but Justice".

Sir Lancelot remained unimpressed: "If you have no lord, then how can you call yourself a knight?"

But Mordred did not budge: "It is my understanding that a true knight has virtue in his heart and the nobility of his cause. I am a knight in truth, if not by title".

"Bold words," said Gawain "for one without allegiance, though by the look of this sorry lot, you are _unnaturally_ good with the sword". Once again an iron mask kept three knights from seeing the hurt child within.

"If it helps matters, Sir Gawain, I was on my way to Camelot to pledge my sword to King Arthur".

"You recognize me?"

Mordred merely gestured at the green band and Gawain smile.

"I suppose it _is_ a famous tale by now" he said "but my manners must have grown coarse, to withhold introductions. I am Sir Gawain, as you say, to my right is Sir Lancelot" -he removed his helmet to reveal long raven hair and a proud face- "and that is Sir Bedivere".

Though with helmet affixed, Sir Bedivere appeared plain in the presence of his seniors, with it removed he was greater in beauty than any and it is a credit to the maiden's devotion to Mordred that her affection did not become divided.

"Sirs," said Mordred "it is an _honor_".

While Sir Bedivere looked awkwardly away, the other two did their utmost to stare through the mask of this mysterious figure.

After a moment Sir Gawain spoke again, suddenly serious: "I have but one question more. You have rescued this lady from brutes and dishonor, and for that you have my thanks and hers, but I must ask you why".

Mordred paused for but an instant: "She was in need of rescuing".

And Gawain did laugh such a hearty laugh that all were startled by it but Lancelot, immovable as ever.

"Then I have been given two brothers today," he said "for surely that is what we are! Come, Sir Mordred, let us depart to Camelot and make your station official!"

"_My lord..._" gasped he. Then, with exuberance to match: "Indeed I shall!"

But the weight of a woman held him back.

Mordred finally turned his attention back to the one he had saved.

"Milady" he said with unseen tenderness "one such as you should hold herself with dignity, not grovel in the mud. Please, rise".

So, she did. Her ladyship looked Sir Mordred in the eyes and saw the soul within. Then, solemnly, she did gently place her lips of flesh upon his lips of steel and curtsied, ever so gracefully. Bedivere blushed, Lancelot relented to a smile, Mordred forgot his breath.

"My knight," she said "before you go, I do have one gift to give; a token of my gratitude and something to remember me by".

From her bosom she drew cloth of virginal white, still unsullied by the struggle. It was plain, but Sir Mordred held it as if it were the Grail itself. Now, it was his turn to take knee and he pressed his mask to her hand in imitation of a kiss.

"It is the knight who should be on his knees before you. If the lady thinks me worthy of such a boon, then I will take it gladly".

"And I thought _you_ overdid things" whispered Lancelot to his friend.

"He merely knows value when he sees it" Gawain whispered in return "Perhaps he can help me teach Sir Bedivere". More loudly he said: "Milady, we must bid thee farewell. Come, Sir Mordred. To Camelot!"

Night fell at last.

* * *

**Author's note: **I had planned to publish this last weekend, but it turns out that studying for finals is a pain in the ass. Better late than never, as the platitude goes. I hope you'll forgive me my lack of subtlety with irony and mythology gags this chapter.

Anyway, this is probably going to be the lightest chapter. A breather, if you will, before things get morbid and depressing.

I have to admit, I'm pretty impressed with the Nasuverse's Arthurian mythology; everyone is in prime position to screw everyone over just by being themselves.

Update: Corrected some mistakes a friend of mine pointed out.


End file.
